


Six Million Miles of Maybe

by dreamlittleyo



Series: Subrogate [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M, Prior Noncon, Sexual Content, Sibling Incest, Wincest - Freeform, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, Wordcount: Over 1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-06
Updated: 2011-04-06
Packaged: 2017-10-17 16:06:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some angst, some shmoop, some closure, some inarticulate drunken confession… Sam and Dean work on moving past the mess they've been left in.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Six Million Miles of Maybe

Sam and Dean get lost somewhere in North Dakota after discovering that Fargo is a crappy place to hunt gremlins in the dead of winter. Ice and snow and crunching tires spread out in all directions, and there are hours of winding roads behind them. They’d have no trouble placing themselves on a map, except every single sign they pass is coated illegible in sleet. They’re not even sure what road this is, but it’s sure as hell not one they want to be on, and they’re both tired and cranky, snipping at each other from across the worn leather bench seat.

Sam is actually glad for the completely mundane tension permeating the air of the car. It distracts from that other tension that’s been hanging close.

Because it’s been months. A lot of them. And Sam is starting to think there can’t be enough patience in the world to keep him sane as he waits for his brother to decide whether or not they're going to _do_ this. Lines have been crossed, and it’s the Winchester special brand of crazy that’s earned him Dean’s grudging forgiveness. That crazy has still done nothing to get him an answer, and Sam is starting to wear thin. Thin and a little bit nuts, but he still can’t push.

Because one wrong move could still send his brother running. If Dean's decision is ‘no,’ Sam knows something vital inside him will fracture to pieces. They’ll go back to pretending this isn’t hovering thick between them, and it will rip them slowly apart. They’ll run themselves ragged trying to ignore it until one of them breaks and takes off. He’ll buy a bus ticket and disappear, or Dean will dump him in California and drive off, and nothing will ever be the same again.

If Dean’s answer is ‘yes,’ it might still tear them apart. Sam’s got his share of delusions, but that isn’t one of them. There’s no storybook ending on their disaster of a horizon, and it’s going to be a pain in the ass making this work for however long they have. But there will be no walking away again, not ever, and Sam is sure, _so_ damn sure, that that’s exactly how things are supposed to be.

Which does nothing to resolve the six million miles of ‘maybe’ stretching wide between them in the meantime. Sam promised to take it slow, and he’s been good. Not saintly, maybe, and certainly not perfect. But good, he thinks, and that has to count for something.

“There!” Sam points out into the darkness. “That’s definitely an interstate sign.”

“ _Which_ interstate, genius?”

“Does it even matter? It _has_ to lead back to civilization.”

“Civilization my ass. I know exactly where we are.”

Sam squashes the ‘bullshit you do’ on the tip of his tongue. Instead lowers his voice and says, “Take the goddamn exit, Dean. I have to piss, and I am _not_ doing it in the snow-covered wilderness off of County Road Nowhere.”

Dean grumbles his disapproval but takes the exit. Within twenty miles they’ve found a rest area and regained their bearings, and the night is silent around them as they walk back through the chill.

“Told you I knew where we were,” Dean gloats. Sam rolls his eyes at the fact that his brother is completely cracked, then gives him a look that fast turns into something different.

Maybe it’s the poetic winter nightscape. Maybe it’s the mounting stress of constantly wondering. Maybe he’s just annoyed with Dean and needs to see him wide-eyed and dumbfounded. Whatever the motive, Sam swoops in on his brother, landing a perfectly centered kiss on that still muttering mouth.

The muttering instantly ceases, and when Sam steps back Dean's eyes are predictably wide. Sam's own hands are jammed deep in his pockets against the cold, and his face is a forced, careful blank. He meets Dean’s startled look for barely a breath before heading back to the car.

Dean is a long time returning after him, and when he climbs back into the driver's seat his movements are careful and tense. He relaxes slowly once they're back on the interstate, now with a solid direction ahead of them.

It was a quick kiss at an empty rest stop in the middle of a North Dakota night, and Sam can’t figure out why it feels so much more important than any other time he’s kissed Dean.

~*~*~*~*~*~

"I've got questions, Sam," Dean says one night, completely out of nowhere. Sam glances up from where he sits sorting their smelliest clothes into piles of light and dark.

"What kind of questions?" he asks, hands stilling. That's Dean's serious face, and he thinks he knows where this might be going.

"About that stuff you said. That shit I promised I'd think about. You've got to give me more to work with."

"Go ahead, then. Ask me anything." Dean is staring at him now, deep and pensive and, not scowling exactly, but his eyebrows are drawn tightly together.

"No," he says instead, the words a surprise. He stands and grabs the keys, heads for the door in a quick, determined stride. "Not like this. Come on."

"Where are we going?" Sam asks, following obediently and climbing in the passenger seat of the Impala.

"To a bar. To get you so plastered you can't think straight and _have_ to tell me what's going on in your freaky head."

"Come on, man. You don't have to--"

"Sam." Dean's eyes are dark when they find his. "This is how it goes. Are you in or not?"

When they get to the bar, some place called Maizey's on the outskirts of town, Dean plies Sam with shots of Jack until he's just north of falling over. The bartender gives them a dodgy look when asked to leave the bottle, but Dean pays up front and they don't even finish the whole thing before he drags Sam to a booth in a dark back corner.

He stares at Sam for long moments after they sit, maybe surprised Sam has gone along with him this far. Sam uses the time to stare at Dean's mouth, because why the hell not, and keeps his own mouth shut until his brother finally speaks up.

"What happens if I say yes, Sammy?"

Which actually isn't one of the questions Sam was expecting, even though he hasn't had time to think or expect much of anything in the time since Dean herded him into the car. He mumbles something about king sized singles in their motel rooms, something more about not feeling like the world is trying to rip them apart anymore, and feels his face go a little red as his eyes dance around the dimly lit bar. There are televisions screens broadcasting a sports channel in every possible direction, but Sam is just this side of too-damn-tanked and not even sure what sport he's seeing.

"You really expecting some sort of happy-ever-after for us?" Dean asks, the heavy intensity in his voice drawing Sam's attention back to their dark corner.

Sam gives an amused, drunken snort of a laugh and says, "Don't be stupid, dude. This is gonna be a pain in the ass. Really goddamn hard's what it's gonna be." He looks up suddenly, needing to see Dean's eyes, to convey some kind of reassurance as he leans across the table. "But _good_ , Dean. It's gonna be _good_ , we'll make it that way. You and me."

Everything is coming out inarticulate and wrong, and he can't read his brother's face as Dean watches him, silent, for what feels like an hour beneath the murmuring chatter surrounding them.

"What if I say no, Sam?" he finally asks.

Sam's face falls. He stares hard at his glass, water now that Dean's gotten him as drunk as he needs, and can't actually bring himself to answer no matter how long his brother waits.

"You gonna take off if I say no?" Dean presses. "Quit hunting and go back to California? Because, newsflash bro, I don't like ultimatums."

But Sam shakes his head emphatically, making the world spin unsteady around him. He stares straight at Dean when he stills, wobbly but earnest.

"It's not like that. It's _not_. I don't want to leave. But everything's different now. I can't go back to pretending it's not there, or that none of this happened, or that--" He cuts himself off and looks suddenly, blushingly away.

"That _what_ , Sam?"

"That I don't know what you taste like. When I _do_ now, Dean. Don't you _see_ it?"

"What am I supposed to see?" Dean leans back in his seat and looks ready to flee.

"That we can't go back. There's only forward, and you have to say _yes_ before we can go that way."

"And what if I can't do that?" Dean whispers, face a mask that Sam is sure he could decipher if the world would just hold goddamn still. Sam can't answer for a moment, too numb from the thoughts the question forces into his head, and he swallows hard before he speaks.

"Then things will be too broken, and it'll be _my_ fault and I don't know which of us will take off first. But there's no other way it can go."

"So that's it, then? I say no and you're gone?" The words are couched in a tone of quiet resignation, and Sam's stomach roils.

"No, Dean! No! I don't want that. I want to stay. I want to stay with _you_ , even if I can't…" He stops and swallows again, tries to force himself calm enough to say what he means through the waterfall of gut reactions the alcohol is yanking out of him, aloud and incomplete. "But you're not going to want me around for long. Not after you say no. I don’t want you to say no, Dean."

"I know that, Sammy." Dean's voice is tired, but even drunk off his ass Sam can see some of the tension leave his shoulders, the look that's almost relief as he scrubs at his face with one hand. Dean glances around the room, eyes skipping from bar to television to the pinball machine over in the corner. Anywhere but Sam. His eyes finally settle on one of the screens, watching the game Sam gave up on deciphering, and Sam watches him pretend not to notice his little brother's heavy scrutiny.

"I'm sorry," Sam whispers, too quiet and too careful and completely unexpected. When Dean looks at him, the confusion in his eyes says he couldn't even hear the soft apology.

"Huh?"

"I'm sorry," he says again, loud enough this time.

"For what?"

"For letting it happen. For being stupid, and missing all the signs, and thinking with my dick. I should've _known_ you wouldn't, and it never even occurred to me that something had to be _wrong_."

"C'mon, man, it's not worth it. Let it go." Dean's voice strains to stay light, and Sam's not nearly drunk enough to miss how completely it fails.

"It was rape, wasn't it," he whispers. A simple statement of fact, and his brother can't pretend not to have heard him.

Silence echoes between them, Dean's shocked and Sam's heavy. They stare each other down until Dean just _can't_ anymore and stares at his hands instead. He doesn't speak, and Sam doesn't really expect him to. It wasn't a question, after all.

"I'm sorry for that more than anything, Dean. That I let it trick me into using you like that." He swallows around the thick lump trying to block the words. "That I took what I did without your consent."

Dean flinches, and Sam _tries_ to keep his mouth shut. But the liquor has made his tongue loose and his curiosity sharp, and suddenly there's nothing he needs to know more. He _has_ to ask.

"Dean, had you ever… before… did you--?"

"No," Dean whispers, harsh and low. He raises his eyes to meet Sam's, defiance sparkling dark behind them.

Sam caves first this time. He doesn't have words enough for all the apology in his head, and he stares straight down at the tabletop. Dean sighs noisily and scrubs at his face with one hand.

"God damnit," Sam hears him mutter. "Enough. Let's get you back to the hotel so you can pass out."

He pulls Sam to his feet, herding and guiding and trudging back to the car, because the hotel is too far to walk. Sam doesn't bother asking if Dean is okay to drive, because Dean is stone sober. All part of the elaborate plan.

"Dean?" he asks, stopping right in his tracks.

"Yeah, Sammy, what?" Dean tries to coax him back into movement, but he stubbornly holds his ground.

"I never want to hurt you again."

It's a frozen moment in a frozen night, and Dean turns to look at his brother despite the awkward angle of Sam draped half across his shoulders.

"And if you gotta say no?" Sam presses on, not actually looking at him. "You need to tell me what to do. You need to tell me how not to hurt you. Okay?"

Back in their room, Sam keeps his hands to himself. He doesn't kiss Dean, or make any of the other moves his sloshing brain suggests as Dean helps him get free of his boots and belt, untangles him from his sweatshirt.

But when Dean tries to stand and move away, Sam can't fight down the need to grab for his wrist. He stares up into dark eyes, pleading without words and knowing Dean will understand him. Dean sighs and says, "Let me get the lights first. All right?" and Sam just nods.

When Dean comes back and lies down beside him, Sam wraps around his brother and holds tight.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Sam hardly experiences the next twenty-four hours through the throbbing pulse of pain behind his eyes, barely dulled by the extra strength aspirin from the first aid kit. Dean takes pity on him and lets him sleep it off most of the day, only dragging him into the world for sustenance once the sun has gone mercifully down.

Sam figures he deserves all the pity he can get, because it's his brother's fault his head is splitting apart in the first place. He steals half of Dean's pie at the diner and doesn't feel even a little bit bad about it.

The next day finds him still a little queasy through the stubborn remnants of the hangover, but they get in the car and drive towards a handful of mysterious deaths on the west coast. Sam spends hours of the drive watching his brother, looking for any sign of change. Dean remains a careful, unreadable blank in the driver's seat.

The continued lack of response makes Sam feel, irrationally, that the previous day's suffering was completely in vain. When a week goes by and finds them still rooted firmly in the forest of indecision, he starts to wonder if he blew his only shot. That night is one huge, aching blur, and what if everything he said was wrong? Maybe Dean is so quiet because he's already made his decision, is putting off his answer on purpose for fear that Sam will take off the second he says no.

The thought makes Sam sweat in spite of the winter chill, and he spends the next hour throwing his brother worried looks. Dean finally smacks him upside the head and tells him to breathe, but he doesn't ask what's wrong. Sam swallows and tries to do as he says.

In Eastern Montana they hunt a nasty creature that's been eating people's eyes. They kill it messily, and get back to the motel with their own eyes still miraculously fixed in their heads. It's not too late yet, still time to hit a bar and unwind maybe, and Sam lets Dean take the first shower. It's only fair, since Dean is wearing more of the thing's innards than Sam is.

When Sam emerges from his own shower, feeling human again for the first time in about three hours, Dean is sitting on the edge of one of the beds and staring out the window. They're both dressed again, clean denim and goop-free cotton and Sam pulls a fresh t-shirt over his head.

"Come here and sit down," says Dean, thumping the comforter beside him.

Sam obeys and keeps quiet. He swallows back confusion, and maybe a little bit of worry, because if Dean is injured he should have said something sooner.

"So, we're doing this thing. Okay?" Dean says, without exposition or preamble.

 _What thing?_ catches unspoken in Sam's throat as revelation hits him an instant before Dean's lips do. Elation thrills along his nervous system, and no split second of hesitation holds him back from reaching to touch Dean's face. He breathes his brother's name and opens readily for the explorations of Dean's tongue.

There's no sign of trepidation, no misplaced caution, and Sam realizes that this is it. That Dean is saying _yes_ , and neither of them can come back from it. The joy of that knowledge doesn't stop the hard knot from settling suddenly in Sam's stomach, and he groans his reluctance when he pushes Dean away.

"What is it?" Dean asks. Worry echoes in the question, an uncertainty that was completely absent from the kiss.

"I'm sorry," Sam whispers, drawing back to meet his eyes. "Dean, I'm sorry, but I have to…" He trails off and swallows hard and finally musters up everything he has to choke out a quiet, "Christo."

Dean doesn't flinch. Just meets him with this look of sad understanding and draws Sam down against his shoulder. Sam wraps his arms tightly around his brother, pulling him close and breathing raggedly, and he's not sure when he started shaking but suddenly he can't stop.

"It's okay, Sammy," Dean murmurs into his hair. "It's okay. It's me. It's just me."

Sam slides a hand up to rest over Dean's heart, feels a rapid rhythm there to match his own. He lays a tentative kiss to Dean's throat, and the pulse beneath his fingers speeds up. He takes that as encouragement, and the next kiss is less tentative, the next more of a bite, and by the time he reaches the sensitive flesh just below his brother's right ear, Dean is a mess of groans and whines that Sam is sure he'll deny later.

"Come on," he says, scooting up the bed and tugging at Dean's sleeve.

Dean gets the hint quick as fire, and he gives Sam a bossy shove back against the bedspread before moving to straddle his hips. He helps peel the t-shirt from Sam's freshly showered skin, drags his own over his head before following the shove with a kiss just as bossy. He takes Sam's lower lip between his teeth, taunting, and Sam can feel the smile against his skin when Dean's hands slide up and along his arms and neck, up into hair still damp from the shower. Sam also feels the unmistakable evidence that Dean is every bit as into this as he is, and he rocks his hips up to offer easy, eager friction.

Their chests slide sweat-slick together with every jostling movement, and Sam throws his head back against the pillows when Dean starts working along his collarbone in quick, nipping kisses. He whispers his brother's name, ragged and rattling, and slides his hands down Dean's spine, drags them along his flank to skim the hot expanse of his belly. Dean groans approval into his skin when he vanquishes the button and zipper of faded jeans and slides his hand past tight denim to palm his brother's dick.

"Jesus!" Dean breathes, fingers disappearing from Sam's hair so he can fight free of his jeans entirely. Sam watches with quiet laughter when one leg snags at the ankle, still smiling when Dean kicks both pants and boxers off the side of the bed and slides back on top of him. Mission Get Naked Right Goddamn Now apparently accomplished, Dean's fingers make impatient work of Sam's fly.

Sam laughs outright until Dean shuts him up with another deep kiss, all delving thrusts with his tongue, and Sam bucks and rolls until their positions are reversed and he has Dean squashed into the bedspread. Even with the zipper undone, his own jeans are uncomfortably tight against his cock, achingly hard and impatient. He twists and squirms his way out of them, throwing aside the last of his clothing and catching the payback gleam of amusement in Dean's eyes.

He swoops back in for another kiss, closing the distance between every inch of their bodies. Skin on skin on skin, and what higher brain function Sam might've been capable of flies straight away.

His world constricts to this, to the perfect, grinding pressure of Dean's hips against his own, Dean's hands along his back, Dean's dick hard and hot as his own between them. He groans so far down in his throat that it's a wonder sound comes out, slides one hand down Dean's back to his ass, one finger finding and teasing that tight ring of muscle.

Dean tenses at the touch, and reality swamps its way back into Sam's head in a single chilling instant. His mind echoes with curses and apologies as he draws his hand away and props himself up to meet Dean's eyes, but he doesn't get to voice any of them before Dean's soft "I'm not ready for that." His brother doesn't look angry, just apologetic, and Sam feels like a complete ass-hole. The look in Dean's eyes says he's not allowed to say any of that shit aloud, though, so he slides in close and lets touch convey the apology for him.

He's worked himself back to that almost mindless state, all but mad from the fevered friction of Dean rubbing right back against him, when he slips close to whisper straight into his brother's ear, "Dean, can I suck you off?"

He's so near the edge himself that he's afraid of ending it too soon, and when Dean groans, "God, yes," straight into his mouth he nearly comes in a preemptive sticky mess between them.

"Okay," says Sam, giving in to the urge to lay a kiss on his brother's forehead before disentangling himself to slide his way down the bed. "Brace yourself," he smirks.

It's been awhile, but Sam's done this plenty of times. And maybe it's not _quite_ like riding a bicycle, but he likes to think he's still goddamn good at it. If Dean's responses can be trusted, his assessment isn't entirely hubris.

Dean gives him plenty of warning, but Sam's got no intention of pulling off at the last second. Instead, he breathes deep, takes Dean's cock as far down his throat as he's capable, and swallows, drowning happily in the sounds that rip free from Dean's throat with his orgasm.

Sam crawls his way back up the bed to watch the blissed out expression on Dean's face as he gradually gathers himself back into awareness.

"Christ, Sammy," he mumbles, words round and thick as his head flops to the side and his eyes blink reluctantly open. "Where'd you learn to do that?"

"Not telling," Sam says with a teasing smirk. "Don't want you running off to kill him in a jealous rage, he was good to me."

Dean blinks for another moment before one more layer of reality sinks back in, and he asks, "What about you? I've never tried, but I've got a feeling my technique's not gonna stack up so well."

Sam surges forward to kiss him again, hungry and grateful and so completely in love that his chest aches. He presses Dean down and into the pillows, not breaking their lips apart for an instant as he takes Dean's hand in his and guides it down.

Dean doesn't need more encouragement than that. Sure fingers close hot along Sam's dick, and he moans when Dean's hand starts moving with the perfect amount of pressure, perfect knowing strokes. He doesn't last long, and he doesn't miss the sparkle in Dean's eyes that says he's going to catch shit for it later. But through the blissful aftershocks of a perfect orgasm, all he can manage is a goopy, sappy smile.

"Dude," Dean mutters, wiping his hand on something Sam can't see. "You're such a girl."

And even _that_ can't raise irritation right now, so Sam just grins and says, "Okay. You know what that means, right? You know what you have to do now?"

"No goddamn way," Dean protests, albeit half-heartedly, as Sam reaches out and drags him close. "Dude, I am _not_ cuddling with you."

"It's the rules," Sam mumbles sleepily against his sternum. "You gotta cuddle the girl after she puts out. You're not a gentleman if you don't."

"I take it back, you're not a girl. You just get gooey-eyed like one. My mistake."

"Too late now."

Dean snorts but gives up his attempts at escape. He mumbles something about Sam being a demanding little bitch, and Sam laughs and says, "Cuddle-resistant, insensitive jerk" by way of response.

When he wraps his arms possessively around his brother, a warm hand settles over his heart. He falls asleep counting his own heartbeats as they slow easily into the comfort of Dean's returned embrace.

~*~*~*~*~*~

When Sam wakes up the next morning, he can't banish the thought that everything should be _different_. Paradigm shift, he's waking up naked to the sound of the shower, and the bed beside him is still warm from Dean's body. They're _lovers_ now, and that should turn everything upside down.

Except it doesn't, somehow. When Dean emerges from the bathroom he's wrapped in a towel, same as always. He moves for his duffel and digs out a fresh pair of boxers, lobbing the wet towel at Sam's head with a smirk before pulling them on. That's pretty much normal, too, and Sam drags himself out of bed and into the shower himself.

There's coffee waiting for him after, and Dean tosses him a newspaper with a circled obituary, the gesture so casual that Sam wonders if he hallucinated every ecstatic moment of the night before.

"Hurry up and get dressed," Dean orders. "I've packed everything up except _your_ shit, and check-out is in 3 minutes." He disappears with the keys, leaving Sam to root for something clean to wear.

By the time he returns, Sam has done a final sweep of the room and closed the door behind him. The car sits ready and waiting, their new destination some town he's never been to in Ohio.

"Hey," says Dean, and Sam turns from checking that the door is actually locked.

"What--" he starts to ask, cut off by the quick, sure press of Dean's lips. It's over in a second, Dean taking a deliberate step away and looking just a little bit sheepish.

And okay, _that's_ different. Sam grins and gropes Dean's ass on the way to the car, earning an insincere glower. He turns off the part of his brain that's trying to think too hard, because the world finally, _finally_ makes sense.

~*~*~*~End~*~*~*~


End file.
